Whirling Dervish
by Deixis
Summary: Years after joining the League, Syndra finds herself consumed by apathy, brought on by her prolonged inactivity and isolation. Sensing the need for change, the Dark Sovereign sets out on a journey to see the world, and in so doing, gets the opportunity to reacquaint herself with the champions she has fought alongside and against.
1. Chapter 1: What You Cannot Understand

A/N: Hi! Thank you for coming to read. First, a warning. This first chapter is a littttttle bit slow, but the hope is that it'll firmly plant you within my understanding of Syndra's character. This story takes place many years after she has first joined the League. Once we get out of poor Syndra's head, the action picks up dramatically, and we'll see far more adventure than we will of spiritual questing/questioning.

Enjoy!

~D

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Chapter One: What You Cannot Understand

_If you show patience, I'll rid you of this virtue._

_If you fall asleep, I'll rub the sleep from your eyes._

_If you become a mountain, I'll melt you in fire._

_And if you become an ocean, I'll drink all your water._

_-Rumi_

There are days when Syndra contemplates why she ever joined the League.

This was worse than most.

Her vengeance could have been swift: exacted upon the Ionian elders with prejudice and extreme force. They would not have expected it. They would not have been prepared to deal with her onslaught. Not all of them, anyway. She would have had the pleasure of smashing them against the ground, crushing them beneath her orbs of darkness, and pummeling them until they were nothing more than bloody, bruised, and broken.

But she had waited. Deferred. She took to the skies to live aloof of a nation that disdained her and those like her. She had brooded, like a little girl, and she had trained, like a young woman, and she had hated, like a lover scorned. And as she did, ennui, like a virus, had infected her.

Plans? Tomorrow. Practice? She was already perfect. Hatred? They were beneath her.

Literally.

The League had been her remedy, at first. She had wanted to show them she was more than an inert sorceress, who sat idle atop her throne in the clouds. And she had. As a free agent, she was very desirable. Her services on the Fields of Justice were both renowned and coveted. There was a satisfaction in being wanted, though perhaps novelty was a better word.

She sometimes liked to pretend she didn't understand how it was that she had allowed herself to become a tool to fight other people's wars. She knew she had become a mercenary to fight her own stagnant inertia, and then to appease a human need she hadn't consciously admitted she'd had, and then finally, now, to appreciate the only kind of art that she knew how.

Every summons was an exhibition, crafted by her hand and for her pleasure. As she had ceased to care about winning, she had grown even stronger, driven by the ecstasy of performance to showcase the beauty of her art. On the battlefield, she was absolute power, her own will but a conductor's baton to be heeded or ignored as the demands of the piece allow. She was reckless abandon. But any battle was more than a matter of mere self-indulgence. She was watching constantly.

As she established her reputation and refined her art, she saw the world, painted in hundreds of styles, without ever truly leaving her home. By fighting with and against Runeterra's greatest "artists", she had learned to respect and despise brush strokes from places she had only ever read about. It gave her a reason to care, if only so slightly. There was certainly an aspect of solipsism to what she did. It was what others did, how they complimented and counteracted her, which forced her to acknowledge that for all her power, she was not everything.

The Noxians. Black and red. Unforgiving on the best of days. She was the envy of any Noxian, and she allowed herself to indulge in that truth. No one there had any qualms about power and its use, and who was she if not a model, the very archetype of what one might achieve through power? She could fly to Noxus right this moment, and have anything she ever- she wanted for nothing. She knew they would have accepted her, but despite that, she did not admire them. Her people were "accepting," and she knew that did not warrant admiration. She did not like her people, but mindless slaughter was not and would never be her prerogative. She had watched as her country had burned at their behest.

The Demacians, overflowing and grandiose, austere in their blues and golds. Justice, worn like a bleeding heart upon some imagined, societal sleeve. They were so totally confident, completely at ease with themselves, and absolutely… self-righteousness. That was a flaw which, if she was pressed, she might admit to having fallen victim to in her younger days. Or now.

Piltover. Overflowing with brass, gunmetal, and bad ideas. Ego. A city preoccupied with tomorrow. Its people were not unlike the Ionians, to her thinking. Technology was just another kind of enlightenment. Maybe that was why its people grated on her so.

Zaun: green, brown, and worse ideas. She had yet to meet a Zaunite in the arena that did something other than curdle her blood.

The Frejlord. Ice.

Bandle City- just the thought of it made her want to vomit, gouge out her eyes, and then eat squirrel.

There were other locales too. Shurima called to her, and Bilgewater reminded her of gnats in the summertime. The Shadow Isles, ever mysterious. The jungles of southern Valoran. But they didn't leave quite the impression that the other places did, as if their champions weren't quite so branded by their nationality. She wondered if the champions of the League thought of her as Ionian, despite her official lack of affiliation. Would they be right, if they deemed her such?

She felt more like the world's byproduct than an Ionian. She was driven by nothing but power, guided by self-righteousness, a font of ideas (some bad) and conviction. Her blood ran as cold as the north, and perhaps, just perhaps, she had finally begun to indulge in the comfort of substance as much as the yordles had. She looked at the marginally full glass of wine that floated beside the accompanying bottle, which was markedly empty. She willed it to her hand, she brought her hand to her face, and she drank deeply from it. She finished it. It was only adequate, despite having been imported. Ionians were better known for their spirits than their red wine, but her pursuit of finer quality didn't seem to have made any difference. She dropped the glass and it stopped before hitting the floor, suspended by half a thought and less of a care.

She rose into the air, adjusting her body to a "standing" position as she did. She began to glide through the halls of her home, her Celestial Fortress, thinking of how, if the mood ever struck her, she might stop the place from deteriorating further than it had.

She had been living here for years now, and being airborne exacts a toll upon structures initially intended for the ground. Her housekeeping had been exceptional. Whether it was as a passive hum to strain her while she trained or an active burden to consume her while she read, she had never lost sight of the importance of home maintenance. Until recently, anyway.

The halls themselves seemed to sag under the weight of the moisture which came from moving through the clouds. The wooden floors smelled musky, the carpets seemed to be molding, and the inked tapestries that spotted the walls were fading to the point where only her mind could fill in their blanks. It was quite possible that no one else who remembered their messages was still alive.

Zaun and Noxus had razed the village surrounding her prison.

Every now and then, she would pass a display case, foggy glass obscuring some dusty artifact or tome that no longer interested her. She had taken time, in the early days, to read every scroll, to decipher every book, and to examine every blade confined within them. She had returned the things she found useful, and burned the things that angered, confused, or worried her. She had exempted the tapestries on a whim, preferring covered to bare walls. The fire had burned for a long time, and there were many empty displays.

She came to her practice room, the former foyer of the old castle. It was four stories below her throne room. It had nothing in it. She did not need practice dummies. She did not need conduits through which to channel her power. She simply needed space, and so everything in the foyer had been slung out the front door a long time ago. She was still not in the mood to practice.

She turned her gaze to the front door and sailed to it, gently willing its massive doors apart. To fling them open at such an altitude might expose them to a sudden gust of wind, which would not do, as the doors could certainly be coerced from their hinges with sufficient force. She shuddered as the wind roared into her home, throwing her silver hair back. Her magic was not good for keeping her warm. While she didn't mind the draftiness of her home, the true might of the elements was something she preferred to remain outside.

The view from her front door did not captivate her, for all its grandeur. The setting sun, an orange semi-circle amidst a canvas of towering blue clouds, did nothing to make Ionia's west coast any different from any other evening. She counted herself lucky, at least, that the curve of the world kept Zaun's smog from debasing the scene's beauty, however little she was appreciating it tonight.

For all the sun's brightness, she felt very, very cold.

Her gaze fell, and she hugged herself in a vain attempt to cover the gaps in the sides of her gown. She contemplated falling frequently. Not because she was afraid, for she could stop herself mid-fall with a whim. She could do most things on a whim. But because when you live alone, in the clouds, there is really only one direction worth going.

To be a Sovereign, did you not need to have something you controlled, or led, or owned? She was unsure, really, if she met the qualifications.

Absolute power, as she knew she had, demanded control. The directionality of the control was the problem, and it was not one she felt she was particularly suited to solving. The answer was uncomfortable, and complicated, and murky. Who did she lead? No one. What did she own? Nothing that she hadn't stolen from someone else.

As she contemplated the forests below, her mind returned to her League-given title, and then the epithet that had haunted her for the past couple of years, the one she never wished to voice, lest someone out there hear her.

"Queen of Nothing…" She whispered. She couldn't even hear herself speak with the wind roaring around her. She floated back, and willed the doors shut. The words lingered on her tongue, and her jaw clenched.

It was a truly fantastic bit of foresight that there was nothing in this room that she could break, because she wanted to _destroy_ something right now. Her arms fell to her sides, and she clenched her fists. A familiar feeling welled up in her chest, and she welcomed it.

Hate.

It didn't come often any more. She sometimes wondered, in periods of long absence, if she had lost it, like an old friend (she had none) that one day did not write back. But it was always there when she needed it. Like a crutch, or an excuse. And when she thought about those, she only became angrier, for she didn't even walk and never gave reasons for her actions. She accelerated her pace away from her training room, hastily making her way through the halls on the other side of the castle. The first display case she encountered was dust instantly, along with its contents. She passed over it and up the stairs.

The next display case she lifted from the ground and methodically smashed into everything else that lined the halls. Only at the end of the hallway did she stop and turn to survey her progress. It looked like a war zone. She'd somehow punched holes in the floor too. It served them right for being so useless. Even so, as she ascended another set of stairs, she let her hands relax.

This was the floor where she slept: the floor where she had always slept. She moved to the door to her room, turning the nob and ducking her head to enter.

Her room had not changed much. A tiny cot, meagre sheets, a closet filled with acolyte robes. A table for eating, writing, and reading, and a mat upon the floor for meditating. Her bedside table contained a small dresser where she kept her undergarments, stockings, and gloves. She had made room for a couple formal gowns in her closet, and a pedestal for her headdress sat on the table. She dropped her headdress on the table, shook out her matted hair, and flung herself onto her bed, which creaked loudly in protest right before it snapped under her weight.

Lying there atop her thin mattress and sheets, now randomly perforated by splinters from her former bedframe, she froze.

Somewhere above her, she could hear glass shattering.

She couldn't breathe.

She was lying in a heap in the remnants of her bed. She had no idea how to function.

She felt incandescent with rage and aghast and quite affronted that her bed would have the nerve and a little bit sad and just so… tired.

When she remembered how to breathe, she was laughing. She tried to push herself off from her bed, instead of floating out of it, and realized that her arm was useless for lifting things. This was also quite funny.

She tried using both arms to a bit more success, and slung her feet onto the ground. Having regained something like composure, she stopped laughing by taking a deep, deep breath. She was in the habit of letting her laughter get away from her, but normally, she was cackling at her opponents' futile attempts at combat and not giggling like a little girl. She teased the ground with her toes, which were uncovered by her stockings. It was… strange to have her feet touch anything. After a moment, she picked up each of her feet in turn and eased off her stockings. Then she plucked off her gloves. She unclasped the skirt of her gown, balled it up with her stockings and gloves, and lobbed it feebly across the room.

She then unfastened the lower portion of her gown from the upper, and peeled off the top. She took careful lengths to ensure her hair did not get caught in the attached pauldrons, which always made undressing an ordeal. She placed the top of her gown on the floor gently, and pushed herself up slightly so she could slip the under-portion out from beneath her.

Something had to change, but she was far too young to be having a mid-life crisis.

Whatever it was she was doing – nothing? – was no longer working.

If ennui were a virus, her hatred was a parasite, and she was beginning to think that it was running out of food. Somewhere along the way, she'd been hollowed out.

She tried to stand, and immediately fell back onto her bed. A splinter lodged itself firmly in her ass. She leapt into the air with a yip and tried again to balance on her feet. She found them lacking, and fell on her face, catching herself ever so barely with her arms. She banged the floor with both hands, and her bed disintegrated under the sudden appearance of two dark orbs. Fuck splinters. She would always have some hatred for splinters. Gingerly, she took a hand and rubbed her butt, to see if it was stuck.

It wasn't, which was good for the future of all trees everywhere. Whatever she was about to do, she had a feeling that its usefulness would be highly diminished if it involved tree genocide. She got up to her knees, and crawled her way over to her table. There, slowly this time, she got to one foot, and then the other, all the while steadying herself against it. She was glad she didn't keep a mirror in her room, because she was sure she looked delightful.

With one hand, she loosened her underwear, and being sure to steady herself, she kicked them off, one foot at a time. She stood stark naked for a second, and then took a step away from the table. She wobbled uncertainly, and she knew she was cheating subconsciously with her magic when her legs didn't crumble beneath her again. Baby steps, for the first time in twenty-five years. There was no doubt that this was easier. Absolute power made walking absolutely simple… if one hadn't let the walking machinery wither away with the years. She knew that if she walked this way the muscle would come back with time, and she would still be able to move about in the meanwhile.

Walking was charming.

She awkwardly waddled to her dresser and selected a new pair of underwear. She grabbed the table, as her bed was no longer existent, and slid them on. She had never been fond of bras: absolute power assuaged the physical difficulty of being well-endowed. Her eyes fell upon her closet. She closed the distance, looked for the cleanest acolyte's robe, and wrapped it around herself.

She hadn't worn white in years. It was a simple thing. There was a strand of fabric to tighten it around her waist, which currently hung loosely from the belt loops that held it in place. She crossed the left over the right, and tied it. It fell to a little past her knees. She had grown a little bit, but not much, since it had been her size.

Her walk back to the front door was tedious. She opted to not use the hallways that she had previously destroyed, for fear that her feet would encounter further examples of nature's personal war against her. It really sank in just how disgusting her carpets and floors were getting, not that it really mattered any more. She entered her training room and with a flick of her wrist, an orb of darkness punched out her front doors. They sailed off into the air, presumably to terrify or maim some unsuspecting woodland wildlife. She strode straight out of the hallway, and started to fall.

She was accustomed to flying. Flying was fine and dandy.

Falling was for lunatics.

She had never once willingly fallen. She tried, at first, to affect a face of composure. She failed, and just gave into screaming until her lungs ran out of air. Then she took a deep breath, and started screaming again. The second scream was enough to calm her nerves sufficiently. She wasn't exactly afraid that she'd miraculously forget how to stop herself. It was more an issue of surrender. She trained to be capable of surrendering to power, and in turn, she had mastered it. She had less experience surrendering to gravity. She hadn't surrendered to it in years, and certainly never like this.

She let the air whip her head around, and she saw her castle rapidly shrinking over her shoulder. With an effort, she brought her head back to bear on her destination: the ground. She eased into the landing, and slowed down as though all she had been doing was floating down from on high. Her feet hit the ground gently, but they still bent a little much as she tried to find her walking gait. The clearing that she'd landed in was grassy and a bit overgrown. Forest stretched out in every direction, and a tiny pond sat tucked neatly in the center. She was about to take a step when she realized he was coming.

"Zed." She snapped her head around and found the ninja posed on the surface of the pond. He was almost certainly resting the tip of his foot on a lilypad, for such was the nature of his relatively shallow sense of humor.

"My queen." The sarcasm rolled freely from behind his mask, and he slipped into a deep bow. Syndra dropped an orb on his location, but he was already gone. From behind her, she heard, "I can't say I fancy the change of wardrobe. Or your new predilection for the ground. What brings you to this shitty, broken country's surface?"

"That is none of your business, Zed." She started walking off in the direction of the first destination that had come to mind.

"You know I have a way of discovering secrets. Wherever you wander, I'll be informed by some shadow or another." He swiftly sidestepped another flying orb, before reappearing right in front of her. Syndra stopped. "You know, if you finally wanted to slay the Ionian elders, might I recommend not walking in the direction which will carry you farther away from them? You could turn yourself one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and set out on your mission of revenge quite easily." He darted away as soon as he saw Syndra's hands begin to clench, and collided with a sphere that arose in his newest location. He swore, and planted his feet.

"Fine. Have it your way. Just know, when you return, I'll be here."

"I was planning on it." She quietly snapped her fingers. "Good-bye, Zed."

"May the shadows guide you." She didn't bother to look if he had left. She sincerely hoped he was watching her, though, and not the sky above him.

She was several minutes into the forest when the entire world seemed to shake. Birds scattered from the trees, and she took a second to pause. She doubted the Master of Shadows had just been crushed by her former abode, but she couldn't help but smile at the thought. How do you get an obnoxious man out of your life? Simple. You drop a building on him. Even if you don't kill him, he doesn't stick around much longer.

She was feeling more comfortable walking already. That was a good thing. She had a long way to go. She didn't know quite where that was yet, but she did know that she was getting there by boat. She exited the forested area an hour later, and rubbed her feet.

No splinters.

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A/N: Well, how about that? No splinters. That's not to say her feet aren't going to be filthy when next we see her. In the next chapter, Syndra finds a boat, and a pirate hunter to go with it. They set out to the mainland together!

Toodles~


	2. Chapter 2: Fortune Doesn't Favor Fools

A/N: Hi all~ Thanks for your patience. This chapter is a little bit longer, and it also had to go through a little bit more work to be in good shape. I struggle to keep my character's voices strong and accurate, and that showed a lot with this one, as I had to really speak for Syndra and her first guest for the first time. For helping me through that, you can thank the lovely and articulate Cinis, whose work you may be familiar with. If you haven't read _Best Matchmaker Ever_ yet, you're behind the times, but if you like my writing, her new Kat/Riven fic, _Burials,_ is like what I do, but better.

In this chapter, we explore Syndra coming into contact with an old acquaintance, and getting very, very drunk. I hope you'll find that it takes the story forward in a way which engages you and compels you to continue reading.

Enjoy!

-D

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Chapter 2 – Fortune Doesn't Favor Fools

_Late, by myself, in the boat of myself, no light and no land anywhere, cloud cover thick._

_I try to stay just above the surface, yet I'm already under and living within the ocean._

_-Rumi_

When Syndra arrived at the port town on Ionia's southeastern coast, she was tired. Her body ached from the days of travel. Her legs burned. Her robe, previously a pristine white, now looked like it had been through a war, with periodic tears, grass and dirt stains, and the distinct smell of sweat. Her hair was knotted and she thought there might be leaves in it, though she'd done what little she could to keep it from looking too unpresentable. Her feet were splinter-free, but she didn't fancy looking at them. They were all but black from the dirt, and she thought she might be developing callouses.

Her days crossing Ionia's countryside had been contemplative, not that that was particularly unusual.

She now had something resembling a plan. She was going to go to Valoran, and travel its entirety. She had spent too long cooped up in her castle, and there was an entire world out there which she had only ever read about. She was going to do it on foot, too. (The world was different from the air, and she felt the change in perspective may be pleasant.) If nothing else, it would be amusing diversion: a vacation. Maybe she would find something out there to spur her to action, to reinvigorate her.

The more she thought about it, the more she realized why she didn't really want revenge any more.

At this point, it was kind of like taking candy from an elderly, cranky group of magical babies.

She had been so angry that she felt justified in beating the daylights out of a bunch of waiting-to-be-euthanized fools. How dare they, et cetera, et cetera. But now, it was a little clearer that things had worked out for the best. Her master, the fool, was dead, and her magical talent had run its natural course to the pinnacle of mastery. The Ionian elders were going to do die eventually, why rush things?

The looks she got from the townspeople were strange. Strolling down the street, she had almost expected people to recognize her. She was famous, to some extent. Infamous. She expected at least a little bit of fear and trembling. She was all but a public enemy in Ionia. Instead, people looked upon her with raised eyebrows and upturned noses. Some crossed the street when she passed. Did she really look so bad?

It was decided. She needed a bath and a place to wash her clothes. Desperately. Thankfully, she knew that most towns had (natural or artificial) hot springs within their confines. It would be a simple enough matter to find one. Trying her best to not be bothered by the plebeians, she marched up main street, looking for promising side streets that might take her to her almost-certainly secluded destination.

It wasn't long before she found what she was looking for. The bath was outdoors, but it was fenced in and a small building acted as a gateway to enter. In the window, she saw her first possible problem: a price to enter.

She did not really deal in… currency.

Her brow furrowed, and she turned away from the entrance. There must be a back door. Perhaps she could enter through there? She began to stalk around the building, and it wasn't long before she encountered a convenient door, guarded by a less convenient guard. She shuffled up to him.

"Excuse me, guard, would it be at all possible to allow me entrance to this venue?" She stood almost as tall as he did, and she stared him right in the eyes as she spoke.

"No."

Syndra crossed her arms and tapped her foot impatiently.

"And, do tell, why is that?"

"Because you look like ass and you haven't paid, waif." The guard snorted as he saw her roll up her fists angrily. The sight of this dirty street urchin with such ludicrously affected speech might give him the giggles, if she kept this up.

"And what if I was to pay after I was finished bathing?" Syndra, in an uncharacteristic show of patience, had yet to throw the man across the alley and proceed with her life. She wasn't convinced that she would have money by the time she was finished bathing, but maybe she would be in a sufficiently groomed state as to be able to slide by without doing so.

"Ha, do I get to join you-" The guard hadn't even finished speaking when his heels began to lift from the ground. He started to yell, and then his mouth clamped shut. His arms and legs were locked firmly in place. He didn't stop rising until her was a full five feet off the ground. His head was just parallel with the top of the fence.

"Now, you are going to listen very closely. I tried to be polite. I really did. I even didn't rip out your spine for calling me a waif. You are never going to speak of this. I am going to enter through this door, bathe myself with whatever accessories I find necessary, and leave again through this door. If you so much as _breathe_ a word of this incident or myself, I will know. I will find you. And your feet will never, ever touch the ground again, because I will have removed them. Then, I will remove your tongue, for being so impolite and uncouth. Only then will I be done with you, if my mood has sufficiently improved. Have I made myself clear?"

She gave him the freedom to nod his head, which he did frantically. She dropped him in a heap to the side of the door, and gave him a weak kick and a glare as she entered the bath.

The bath itself looked like a little slice of heaven. Steam rolled up from the pools in waves, and the water looked nice enough. Fake rocky outcroppings lined the rest of the inside of the fence, and also bifurcated the bath area so as to allow for gender-specific bathing. She went to a row of cubbies, grabbed two towels from a large pile, as well as an individual bottle of shampoo and a rough bar of soap. She untied her robe, placed it on an empty shelf, and strolled to the pre-washing area. She began to scrub the grime and debris from her body and hair methodically, in accordance with the custom of not tracking dirt into the bath proper. When she was finished, she dried herself off with one of the towels, before discarding it to a hamper and disposing of her soap and shampoo. She left the pre-washing area, and noticed there were a surprising number of people bathing, so she walked around the edge and found a less crowded spot for herself.

She stepped into the water, and sighed. How pleasant.

She was used to baths. She did not have the luxury of showers and flowing water in her castle, so she took them regularly. But typically, the water was tepid at best, as she had to bring it up to her castle, and she was cold, due to the wind-chill. This was nothing like that, and she shuddered with delight from the water's warmth.

She had been sitting there for a couple of minutes when she first saw her, just sitting there, staring at her. Her long red hair was sopping wet, and she was submerged enough to be modest, and it took Syndra a second to connect the dots. No… it couldn't be…

"Syndra?" Sarah Fortune half-squealed, half-shouted across the bath. Instinctively, Syndra cringed, and hastily cast her gaze around. The entire bath was staring at her now. She took a deep breath, and shook her head. No, that is not my name. Definitely not. The gazes abated, and she motioned with her head for her red-headed acquaintance to slide down the submerged bench so that they could… have a conversation. Having only navigated awkwardly around a couple of people, they came to be sitting next to each other.

"Oh my god, it is you… What the fuck are you doing here?" Sarah's mouth dropped open in shock, and Syndra returned the expression with her typical steely gaze.

"Hello to you too, Sarah." She punctuated it with a sigh. For emphasis.

"I- well, uh, hi! It's just not every day that you, uh, run into the moody empress of power and dark floaty castles and suffering and such. It sort of sets you off your manners, y'know?"

Dark floaty castles? Was that really her image? Syndra would've had more time to contemplate such questions, if not for Sarah's gaze, which was disconcerting, to say the least. Perhaps being a pirate hunter gave her the ability to see through water, no matter how steamy? If it did, they were going to have a stern talk, as Sarah's focus was well below eye-level.

"So, what brings you to this delightful coastal town? I didn't really take you for the vacationing type." Sarah Fortune had noticed Syndra was paying attention, and her brief moment of fluster was replaced almost instantly by her typical charm and charisma. The change in her voice in particular caused Syndra a little bit of difficulty, in terms of adjusting. One second, a shocked little girl. The next, grown pirate-hunting woman with full lips and truly riveting inflection.

"I-I am not the vacationing type. But, sometimes, one needs some time to contemplate the bigger questions." She was upset to hear herself stutter, and she knew Sarah had noticed. She pushed it from her mind, however, as another more interesting thought took its place. Pirate hunters tend to have boats. Sarah Fortune almost certainly had a boat. Maybe she would be able to secure passage to Valoran without the burden of paying? Then again, this was Miss Fortune. Most things had a price when you dealt with her and her ilk.

"Oh really. What kind of questions?" Despite her tone, which mirrored the vapid intensity of interest a party's host might show to an honored but dull guest, the look in her eye suggested her inquiry wasn't nearly so shallow. Syndra bit her lip.

"Well, when you do not know what the big questions are-"

"Say no more." To Syndra's perception, Sarah actually looked like she might have genuinely understood. Her mind doubted it: not many people, she imagined, could grasp the entropy of purpose absolute power could generate. "Tell you what: let's go out for dinner and drinks. I would love the honor of talking with you about 'the big questions.' And other stuff too, of course."

Sarah Fortune punctuated her proposal with a wink. Syndra had a hard time playing guessing games when it came to people's emotions. She was not naturally empathetic. Sarah complicated all of that with her masquerades: her effervescence and dedication to manipulation made it even harder for Syndra to discern what was real and what was put on. It surprised Syndra greatly, as a result, that such a benign gesture seemed to suggest (at least to her, who was quite fallible in matters of the heart and mind) that maybe, the fearless Miss Fortune was just a tiny bit scared to be extending the offer to her in the first place.

Syndra looked away, weighing the offer. She needed a boat. She hadn't had a glass of wine in days. And, perhaps it would not kill her to spend time with this woman. She did not have anything else with which to fill her time. And who knew? Maybe Sarah Fortune could help her with more than just her boat.

Maybe she didn't want Sarah to feel afraid to have a prolonged conversation with her.

She turned back to face her.

"I would like that."

"Great! Let's get going!" Sarah leapt up out of the water, not missing a beat. Her body, not that her clothing left much to the imagination, was everything Syndra might expect and, quietly, envy. Syndra bent into the water and hastily began to remove the last of the soap from her hair, when she remembered.

"Oh, Sarah…"

"What's wrong? Do you want to stay longer?"

She did, but that was beside the point. She was clean and relaxed enough. Her clothes, on the other hand, were rather lacking.

"My robes are rather filthy, as my journey was long. I do not really have anything acceptable to wear."

Sarah Fortune paused for a moment.

"Stand up."

"What?"

"Do it."

So Syndra, for reasons she could not entirely understand, stood. Sarah's eyes skimmed over her body.

"Turn." And Syndra turned.

"Turn." She turned again.

"Alright." Syndra turned to face Sarah, who was grinning devilishly.

"I think I have a solution to your clothing problem."

* * *

Sarah walked out the back door fully-clothed, and gave a friendly wave to the guard, who grinned back sheepishly. Her captain's hat sat at a cocky angle atop her head, her brassiere accented some of her best (physical) assets, and her tight leather pants accented the rest. Her boots completed the outfit, and the bag with her bathing essentials and Syndra's shirt didn't take away from the look. Functional and stylish, as the guns at either hip might lead you to believe. It was natural that the guard might be inclined to let her pass.

When Syndra passed, his expression was equally content for half a second. Then his eyes widened, and he slowly backed himself up against the fencing. She strode out in black-and-white brassiere and leather pants, and as she watched the guard, her previous void of self-confidence (a very, very rare occasion for her) filled in with smug satisfaction. She wasn't fond of bras, but it wasn't every day that she got nice looks and _then_ people cowered in fear. She brought a finger to her lips to shoosh him, and then drew a line across her neck, as Sarah looked around for the best way to proceed to her destination.

"Does it fit alright?" She asked, as Syndra stepped up beside her. Sarah was just a bit taller than her, for she had the advantage of boots.

"For the time being, I think it fits marvelously."

* * *

"Jonah! A bottle of something white and bubbly for my sister and Greg's Grog for me, Batch Eighteen and Three-Quarters if you've got some!" Sarah and Syndra strolled into the inn's bar, where the one-eyed, one-legged bartender gave them a curt nod before hustling off to the wine cellar. He rang a bell, which hung from the bar, to signal the need for the waitress' presence.

The place was mostly empty, which suited Syndra just fine. Sarah led them to a booth in the back corner, snagging a list of the daily food offerings on the way.

They ordered their food from a visibly unamused waitress, and the bartender dropped a dusty old bottle, a towel, and a bin of ice on the table before hobbling away to get Sarah's grog. Sarah dusted off the bottle with the towel, wrapped the cork in it, aimed it away from the table and slowly twisted the bulbous shape off. The result was a small but satisfying pop and a slightly audible fizz. She dropped the bottle in the ice bucket and offered the cork to Syndra to smell. Syndra took it and sniffed it lightly. Old.

"What brings you to Ionia, then?"

"A bounty, naturally. A ship from Bilgewater was captured, crew and all. The once reputable vessel then began to attack other ships. It wasn't long before people began to notice something strange, though." Sarah leaned in, not wanting to be overheard. "The crew was the exact same, except for the captain of the old vessel. By reports from survivors, the new captain wields some kind of magic, or perhaps a hextech apparatus, or both, which is being used to sway the crew to his will. We've been hired by concerned benefactors to recover the ship, without killing the men on board or damaging the vessel. The ship has been reported to be in Ionian waters off the coast of this town. We've been tracking it for a while now."

Well, that was certainly interesting. Syndra's eye caught on a cannon in the corner of the room, and wondered if it had seen battle at sea.

"That sounds like quite the adventure," Syndra said, not realizing her voice was near a whisper. Sarah laughed, perhaps a little too loudly.

"You're probably right! But you know, an old friend of mine used to say something about adventures. An adventure is just a disaster you've learned to laugh about." Sarah was grinning, a million memories clearly passing through her mind. Syndra eyed the bottle, bringing the back of her hand to touch its neck.

"I think this is probably ready." Two glasses and Sarah's grog arrived at that moment, oddly perfect timing for an establishment with such disenchanted wait staff. Syndra poured the bubbly into her own glass, letting the bubbles crest the ridge of the glass ever so slightly, but without rolling over. She held out the bottle, but Sarah waved her hand.

"I'm not much for wine. That's all for you, hun." When Syndra smiled in response, Sarah laughed. "You're full of surprises, aren't you?"

"Not as many as you might imagine." Syndra tipped the bottle into the glass, mirroring her previous pour. She placed the bottle down, and subtly willed the other glass to her hand. Taking the other glass, she sniffed at both.

"You know, I don't think I've ever had an adventure before. Or not in a very long time."

"Cheers to adventure, then! If you hang out with me long enough, I'm sure you'll stumble across a couple." Sarah Fortune raised her towering pillar of a glass of grog, and Syndra met it with both of her champagne flutes. She drank from both, for giggles.

* * *

The bottle was gone, and a whiskey sour and a refill on grog had taken their places. Those were also getting closer to the half-empty side of things. Syndra wasn't drunk yet, but that bottle hadn't lasted very long either. Sarah didn't seem to be slowing down.

"And that was how I managed to strut out of a four-man dive on my tower, with Nocturne on top of me, with Sona silenced by Talon, and walked away nearly acing them." Sarah was flushed, and her hands were draped casually over the back of the booth. She was very relaxed, and in her element to boot. Syndra couldn't help but laugh. What a maneuver! Syndra was certainly coming away from this with a newfound respect for the bounty hunter, not that she didn't suspect maybe that particular story had been a slight bit embellished.

"That reminds me of the time when someone thought a supportive role would be the best suit for my particular talents, and I had to work with Draven of all people." Sarah gave a shudder. She counted herself fortunate that she would probably never compete alongside him. "He was an insufferable megalomaniac, as one might gather, but his technical prowess was something almost worthy of admiration. We had just forced Ashe and Janna to retreat to their tower when the monkey, Kuwang, teleported down into our lane." Sarah giggled. His name was definitely not Kuwang. Ha ha, wang.

Sarah was taking periodic gulps of her grog, but if she was being honest, she couldn't really hear what Syndra was saying. Her voice was just a little too soft, the bar a little too loud, her head not quite foggy enough to make Syndra's story interesting. Sarah's eyes refocused and she noticed that Syndra's lips had stopped moving. How long had she been finished talking?

There was a slight pause, and then they laughed and finished their drinks.

* * *

Syndra was munching, and that was deeply disconcerting. She was also slurping, another action she tended to never ever undertake unless she was quite intoxicated. The last of her food was disappearing, as was the last of another drink. She could tell because it had a straw in it, and she could no longer blow bubbles.

Sarah belched. Her drink and food were both gone, and she was tapping her foot excitedly. The band had just arrived, and she was of two halves of a mind to dance. Or she was, until Syndra put a hand on hers.

"Sarah, why do you do what you do?"

"What do you mean?"

"Where does your drive come from?" Syndra had a look of hard concentration on her face, and she knew it, so she was trying to downplay the fact that she had food in her mouth as much as possible. This gave Sarah Fortune pause, and she put her other hand on top of Syndra's.

"When I was a girl, my mom was murdered in front of me. I'm hunting so one day, I'll get the chance to track down that bastard and torture him 'til I can't stand it anymore. Then I'll kill him."

Syndra swallowed. The noise from the bar swelled to fill the void in conversation. Sarah Fortune had probably killed more people than she had.

"You can think about all that later, honey. In the meantime, I'm sure there are some people out there who'd love to refill our drinks." And with a soft smile, she took Syndra's hand and led her out onto a dance floor, which was already looking like a good place to find trouble. Syndra found a hard, metal support beam to lean against, in the hope that she might be able to avoid dancing, but that hope was quickly quashed by Sarah's hand grabbing her and throwing her haphazardly at a clump of people.

* * *

Sarah opened one of the next two bottles with her hands. The other, she opened with her teeth. She spat out the cork, flipped her hair back, bowed to the cheering audience, and took a generous swig. Then, she worked her way through the crowd to pass it to Syndra, who was sitting absent-mindedly on one of the bar stools.

"Drunk. I'm drink enough to be drunking bubbles." So Syndra did.

* * *

"So you're the legendary Sarah Fortune's older sister?" The man who'd sat down next to her at the bar inquired. He was non-descript, but even in her state of significant impairment, Syndra could smell the alcohol on his breath. She didn't really care though.

"Older? Yes, yesss. Why?" She cast a lazy glance his way, which ended with her head cocked at the angle that only the drunkest of individuals adopt to gaze at things outside of their previously field of view.

"I like older women. Here, try this." Syndra didn't know where he produced the glass from, but he set it down on the counter and pushed it her way. She eyed it suspiciously, before pushing it lazily back towards him. He scowled and picked up the glass. He was holding it in the air, pushing it at her, and that was when she heard Sarah's voice.

"Put the glass down." One of her guns was drawn. Probably Shock. Syndra raised an eyebrow. She could've just ignored him, no reason to get violent… The bar had gotten very quiet very quickly.

"Are you trying to pick a fight, girl?" A burlier man appeared, as the bar's clientele slowly backed away from the bar, instinctively moving for the exits or some kind of cover.

"Nooooooo, I just don't like when you t-try to pass drugged drinks to me, and then im-me-mediately go to my friend and passss them to her too!" Her speech was slurred and her arm wavered. Two more burly, thuggish sorts were beginning to creep up on Sarah. Drugged drinks? That was extremely impolite… She did not want to be drugged, and she definitely did not want Sarah drugged. That would not do. You could not shoot people when you were drugged.

The man at the bar stood up, and snapped his fingers.

"She's not her sister! Kill the silver-haired weirdo, grab the bounty hunter, and let's move!"

Sarah's response was instantaneous. She ducked and spun on her heel, letting her eyes take in the room, and then she fired. She shot the bell which was hanging from the bar, and her bullet careened, zooming off the bell and through the shoulder of one of the thugs. Its downward trajectory carried it towards the mouth of the ornamental cannon in the corner of the room. The cannon's rim was curved, and the bullet seemed to ride along it, rocketing out to take another thug through the hip. The bullet wasn't done yet, though. It continued onwards toward a metal-lined support beam in the middle of the room and struck its corner. The glass in the man's hand exploded in a shower of alcohol and glass.

Maybe she'd been shooting with Awe instead.

But, she presumed she was probably the silver-haired weirdo. That meant someone was probably going to try to kill her now. She got to her feet, and willed her orbs to come.

They were going to need some help.

* * *

A/N: *gasp*

A cliffhanger! How dreadful. Better wait for the next chapter, like good little readers.

In other news, I'm obliged to state that alcohol is a _drug,_ and drugs do strange things to you. If you drink, drink responsibly. This is not an example of responsible drinking. It is_ not _an example of how an average night out with friends should progress. A bottle of wine will hit a man wayyyyyy harder than Syndra is hit initially (she's making her commentary on the matter having just finished it quickly, and thus not having metabolized the entirety of it), and a woman will be even drunker after a bottle of wine. The narrative restraints keep me from depicting how Syndra actually "is," having consumed a bottle of wine, because when you're drunk, it's often hard to tell how drunk you are. Please understand that drinking should be done in a controlled setting, in a controlled amount, with trusted friends. Syndra and Sarah Fortune aren't doing any of those things, and while it makes for a good story, it doesn't make for a good life choice.

Thanks for reading! In the next chapter, Syndra wakes up the next day and discovers what in hell's half-acre actually happened. She meets two other League champions as well, and I bet you haven't read any fic about either of them recently.


End file.
